


Angel

by starhawk2005



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Het, Smut, wing!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:17:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starhawk2005/pseuds/starhawk2005
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s an angel…in more ways than one. *wink*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Although I was originally bullied into given the idea by cammy_luv, this fic was also inspired by the “Little Things” challenge (#2) at the spn_het_love comm. back in the summer of 2007.  
> The requirements for the challenge were that I had to include the following words in the fic: List #2 -- scars, cotton, dirt, coffee, thread

Ellen stands there, watching John – John’s _ghost_ – say a final goodbye to his boys. He touches Dean, nods to Sam…and then steps back and disappears in a blaze of light that leaves her eyes stinging and blinded.

John didn’t acknowledge her at all. But why should he? A few rolls in the hay - after Billy had passed, of course - hadn’t created that sort of bond between them. He’d needed to take the edge off, and he’d preferred to do it with her, and it had been the same from Ellen’s end. Maybe it would’ve been easier to sleep with strangers, maybe that would’ve complicated things less, but it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

She hadn’t realized the scars it would leave.

She’d been angry with John, yes, for his role in Billy’s death. But she hadn’t believed for a second, even through the grief and pain, that John had _intended_ for Billy to die. So when John Winchester turned up at the Roadhouse one day, roughly a year after he’d come to tell her the bad news, she’d wordlessly brought him the coffee he’d ordered. And then given in all too easily to the unspoken invitation offered in his gaze.

Because she knew that look. Loneliness, need. Wishing that you could reverse time, get back the one person you loved, the one that you most wanted to be with.

Mary, in his case. Billy, in hers.

But in the absence of the people you most wanted, you made do with the people around you. There was really no other choice, not for Ellen, and not for John. So she’d locked up after everyone else had left, and then just leaned up against the door, locking eyes with John. That’s when it started.

She hadn’t cared about the dirt and mud left on her bedroom floor when it was done, or the scent of him lingering on her sheets. It was the only thing John had left behind of himself, that first time, and even those signs had swiftly faded.

Until the next time he turned up, eight months later.

He’d been wounded that time. Sitting patiently with a bottle of JD while she clumsily used needle and thread and shaking hands – she’d never been good at that sort of thing – to stitch him back together. Before she took him to her bed.

It’s never been love between them. The shadows left by Mary Winchester and Bill Harvelle are too deep and thick for that.

But it was _something_ between them. So for John to die twice like this leaves an impression. Dying once in a hospital in some nameless town, and then put on a pyre by his boys, or so Bobby had told her over a beer some months ago.

But now he’s died _again_ , and right in front of her. Only appearing long enough to battle the Demon, and to say a final goodbye to his sons. Just enough of a glimpse to remind Ellen of what they’ve had. Even though what they’ve had, hasn’t been much. Even though John’s ghost probably didn’t even know she was there.

So when she goes to bed that night, everything’s a swirl of memories and confusion. She remembers what his body felt like against hers, under hers, over hers. The feel of his skin, and the cotton of his worn shirt, the rasp of his stubble and the scent of the outdoors on his clothes.

She wonders if he’s in Heaven now, if that flash of light upon his disintegration means that he finally made his way upstairs. He’s made mistakes – Billy’s death a prime example – but Ellen still believes John Winchester is – _was_ \- a good man. A man who has always tried to do the best he could, with what he’s been given.

The memories tease at her as she tries to fall asleep. She’s lying on her stomach, her mind hazy and far away, when she first hears the noise from the foot of the bed. Her hand goes for the knife under her pillow in a practiced movement, but that’s when the familiar hand grabs her wrist.

Just like the last time.

He’s there, standing over her, but she can’t see him properly. There seems to be a pale grayness all around him. She must have fallen asleep after all, must be dreaming, because he _can’t_ be here. John’s dead, dead twice over. Because it’s not real, she relaxes, lets him draw her hand back, unarmed, from underneath the pillow.

He gives her a smile. One of those sad ones of his, that she knows so well. He leans in and kisses the palm of her hand, and that’s like the last time they were together, too.

It’s probably wrong to dream about him like this, but she supposes this is her way of grieving.

He’s kneeling on top of her, straddling her, starting to strip off his clothes, and that’s when she realizes what the paleness around him is. _Wings_. Soft, pale gray feathers. She almost laughs at the absurdity of it. Although it also makes a kind of sense. Even if he made his way to Heaven, pureness, _whiteness_ , doesn’t seem suited at all to a man who’s led the kind of checkered life John has.

He’s soon naked, and exactly as she remembers, right down to every scar and flexing muscle. Everything is identical. Except those _wings_. She touches him, ignoring the strangeness, and he seems solid and warm and alive. She trails her hand down his chest, down over the thick curling hairs, and he’s even aroused, hot and pulsing under her fingers.

Ellen needs this, needs to connect with him one last time. So when he slowly reaches down and starts to pull her nightgown off, she helps him. When his lips brush against hers, she wraps her arms around him and pulls him closer, eager to maintain the illusion.

The strangeness under her hands threatens to shatter the whole mirage, though. The skin and muscles of his back under her touch are familiar and comforting, just as always. But the feathers _distract_. They’re soft and tickle against her fingers, and she doesn’t know what to _do_ with them.

When John kisses her, hard, that brings her back to herself. This may be her last time with him, and she’s not going to waste it. She kisses him back, caressing his mouth with hers, groaning when the palms of his hands slide down across her nipples.

Dream or delusion, he remembers what she likes. He lowers his head, nipping gently at her throat, then moves lower and nibbles on her nipple, and her head rolls back bonelessly against the pillows as one of his hands moves between her thighs.

She says his name, breathless, spreading her legs wider to accommodate him. Eyes closed, she’s hyperaware of every brush of his body against hers, and when feathers ghost softly along the inside of her thigh, she gasps and says his name again.

He says something she can’t properly hear – maybe her name, maybe an endearment, maybe nothing, really – but it’s his bedroom voice, smoky and low, the one that always made her shiver deep inside, and it has the same effect now. He touches her, and she’s wet and aching, and when he eases his fingers into her and rubs his thumb against her clit, it’s almost a relief.

Feathers brush languidly against her again, but it doesn’t bother her now. It’s erotic, sensual, something that makes her passion _burn_ even more hotly. As if the tease of that dexterous mouth leisurely sliding from her nipples down to join his hand isn’t enough.

She opens her eyes to watch him, and he’s looking up at her, watching her as he licks and rubs and teases. He unfurls a wing over them both and the long feathers ghost over her breasts, leave tingling tracks across her skin, and the blood rushes in her ears as the sweet pressure builds inside her.

He turns her over then, rolling her onto her belly and pulling her up onto her hands and knees. The feathers are everywhere, cocooning her, graying out her vision, brushing lightly against her sides and over her back. They even slip between her legs, stroking across all the sensitive folds there, and she moans his name again, arms and legs shaking and threatening to give out on her.

Strong hands wrap around her hips, steady her. Then he’s pushing inside her, hard and fast and deep, just the way she always liked it. But there’s still the feathers all around her, seeming to tease across every inch of her skin, still somehow between her legs and rubbing delicately across her throbbing button, and she’s not going to be able to hold back much longer. Even if her climax tips the balance and wakes her out of this dream.

She struggles not to do it, not to surrender and end everything, but it proves impossible. He’s breathing behind her, harsh and deep, and she can hear his wings beating, feel the air moving across her skin in cool waves. The pressure building inside is too much, as he thrusts faster, sweet fires consuming her as he somehow continues – with fingers or feathers, she can’t tell anymore – teasing through her wet folds, and she cries out his name again as she finally gives in...

When she opens her eyes, she’s in the dark. All alone. Her heart is racing and her skin is wet and her bedroom smells like sex, but she knows it was still all just a dream. A way to say goodbye to her friend and sometime lover.

She closes her eyes and allows herself to fall back asleep. Dreamlessly, this time.

When her eyes open again, morning sun is slanting in, illuminating everything, slicing across her face and pillow like a sword. That’s what she gets for forgetting to close the curtains the night before.

She starts to sit up, but then freezes. No, it can’t be.

On the pillow, trapped in the sword-thrust of the morning daylight, it sits there.

A single, soft, gray feather.


End file.
